


Regret

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: rewatch bits [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s01e10 Musketeers Don't Die Easily, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 22:14:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14066730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Porthos finds Constance after the happenings at the end of season one.





	Regret

Constance sends the woman who comes to help her to the garrison. She can’t go herself, not after that with d’Artagnan. Mary, who came and got her to tell her about Bonacieux, who even likes Bonacieux. When they were first married Constance had found her a comfort, the woman who came and told Constance she was sensible, that love would grow, that affection was important, that ‘the master’ loved her, that a roof and food were important and wonderful. Constance distrusts her, now, which is unfair. She’s a good woman. She takes Constance’s message and returns a little flustered, Porthos removing his hat as he bends to come through the door behind her. 

“Thank you, Mary,” Constance says. 

 

“I’ll check on the master before I go, shall I?” Mary asks, giving Constance a stern look at being asked to be left alone with this big, armed, muscular soldier. “Stay long enough to escort monsieur back out.”

 

“That won’t be necessary,” Constance says. “He’s here to see my husband, not me. Boncieux asked for him.”

 

Mary smiles and bobs a curtsy, issuing further into the house in a rough bustle to tell the master his guest is here. She returns a little confused but shows Porthos up. Constance is surprised, seeing as Bonacieux hadn’t asked for Porthos at all. Mary comes back out. 

 

“About an order,” she tells Constance, smiling, content. “I’ll be back tomorrow, if you’d like?”

 

“No, come next week as usual,” Constance says. “I can manage.”

 

Mary tuts and promises to come tomorrow, then leaves. Finally. Porthos comes back out into the kitchen and sits opposite her, setting his hat and guns on the table. 

 

“Thought it must’ve been about an order I made with him,” Porthos says. “He was very apologetic about not being able to complete it. I think he misunderstood Mary, must’ve thought I’d come to see him. He’s out of it.”

 

“I wondered,” Constance says. 

 

“What can I do for you?” Porthos asks. 

 

“You said you wanted to be friends, then you lied to me, let me think d’Artagnan was fighting with you, let me think Athos was dead, that d’Artagnan was in trouble again. You do know d’Artagnan, don’t you, sir?” Constance says, looking at her hands on the table-top. “He’s always in trouble and he’s got a hot head.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wasn’t that hard to sell that bit.”

 

“You didn’t think that maybe I’d be in trouble, too? Being as he’s close to me, which isn’t exactly a well-kept secret, seeing as the Cardinal bloody well knows. Why he cares I don’t know but he seemed to, enough to send my husband snooping,” Constance says. 

 

“Didn’t know that, did I?” Porthos says. “Not the only one keeping secrets.”

 

“My secrets don’t generally put you in line to be kidnapped,” Constance says. “Which, by the way, if you come across a whore called Céline you might do something for her.”

 

“Who’s she?”

 

“The woman who Milady’s friend Sarazin put to guard me,” Constance says. “I didn’t much like her obviously but I got the impression she hadn’t much choice, whatever she said about love. She was a drunk.”

 

“Ah,” Porthos says. “I might be able to find her. Can’t do much though, I can’t save the world you know.”

 

“Bloody right, I’ve noticed,” Constance says. She looks up at him, expecting to find at least a little remorse, but all she finds is tiredness. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this? You came and drank wine and ate supper here, two nights before all of this, after rescuing her majesty from that convent.”

 

“That was good bread,” Porthos says, livening up a little and looking around hopefully. Constance bangs her hand on the table, loud enough to remind him that she’s angry but not enough to bring her husband down. “Sorry. I didn’t have anything to tell, then, and after that it happened quickly, I didn’t think.”

 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Some friend you are,” Constance says, letting out some of the bitterness and anger of the past few days. 

 

“Bonacieux is trapping you here with him on purpose, he doesn’t love you, this isn’t love,” Porthos says. “I doubt he ever was really even in danger of dying.”

 

“Porthos!”

 

“Yeah yeah, you want to talk about our shit conduct, I know. I know it was shit, we didn’t consider you, we’re awful friends,” Porthos says. Constance holds up a hand to interrupt. 

 

“You,” she says. 

 

“Right. Me. I'm a shit friend. Anyway, I didn’t know anyone except us knew about what was between you and him, he’s your lodger to the world, it was safer not to tell you, not when we were possibly being watched. Drawing attention to any kind of ties between you and us, any closeness beyond you being his landlady wouldn’t have helped matters,” Porthos says. 

 

“And when I came to the garrison and asked how he was and you sent me off home with a platitude, instead of trusting me?”

 

“Same excuse, plus we were distracted,” Porthos says. “Your husband came looking, you know. Came into the tavern and yelled at us. He's always after you though, didn't think much of it, he keeps close tabs on you, keeps watch. Should’ve done something then, though, at least checked; if you really want to get into it that’s the deficiency in my friendship you should pick at. You want my excuses for that? I just buried Athos. Doesn’t seem to matter much, seeing as he’s not dead.”

 

“He’s no saint either,” Constance says. “I have no sympathy for Milady, she’s ruthless and cold-hearted, but I heard her story. No woman deserves to be forced, and no one listens to us or gives a damn either way. He thinks his wife’s been mistreated by his brother in her own house and he hangs her for defending herself? Oh, maybe she was lying, maybe she had other faults, she’s certainly murdered since then and she’s all twisted and evil, but I can’t help thinking of my friends, of myself. You say Bonacieux don’t treat me right, but I don’t see you having a go at Athos for treating people badly.” 

 

“Athos is dead,” Porthos says. “Wouldn’t dream of having a go at a dead man.”

 

“He’s not dead,” Constance says, her anger faltering. Porthos gives a rough, low laugh and she looks at him again. 

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “Will be one day, sooner than later the way he goes. Doesn’t matter anyway. I’ll trust you in the future Constance, I promise I will.”

 

“Good enough,” Constance says. 

 

“Right,” Porthos says. 

 

He doesn’t stay to drink wine or eat with her, how he sometimes has been. He gets up and sets his hat on his head and leaves, steps heavy. Constance considers worrying about him but decides she doesn’t have the energy. She goes up to the bedroom and passes through, pretending not to notice Bonacieux awake, and lies down in her narrow bed. 

 

Porthos returns in the morning, slipping in early with fruit. He’s there when Constance goes down, waiting for her. He gives her a mug of wine and a plate of fruit and some bread and sits beside her, helping himself to the same, stretching his legs out in front of him and eating comfortably. Constance picks at her food and waits, for whatever it is he’s here for. Her face is bruised and the skin feels tight over her cheek, she’s still tired and dirty and sore from being stuck in a cellar, from falling down the steps, from being dragged about and bound. She’s still afraid and worried. She loves d’Artagnan and misses him and worries for him even though he’s got all these friends, and she can’t help the deep guilt over her husband. She promised to make a life with him, before God, and she hasn’t been doing that recently. He broke his promises to care for her, too, though. His sort of love, Porthos is right, is no love worth having. She can see that despite Mary’s platitudes. She’s not sure d’Artagnan’s love’ll be much better. It would feel wonderful but he doesn’t take the time to understand any more than anyone else. 

 

“It’s harder to spend time with you,” Porthos says. “I don’t want to make things harder. I don’t want to leave you alone though.”

 

“I’m not alone,” Constance says. 

 

“Yeah, ok,” Porthos says. “There must be women…?”

 

“Yeah,” Constance agrees. She’s not lying, there are women she’s friends with. But… “Boncieux…”

 

Porthos grunts his understanding and runs his hand over his hair. Then he looks at her for a long time, reaching out to touch his fingers lightly to her bruise. Finally she sees the regret and remorse she was looking for last night. He lets his hand drop to the table and smiles, forcing cheer. 

 

“Then you are stuck with me,” Porthos says. “I’ll be subtle. Despite what the others say I can be subtle.”

 

Constance snorts, both because he is the least subtle person she’s ever met and because she can imagine some of the things that have made the others mistrust his claims to subtlety. She trusts him, though, and so far no one’s noticed his comings and goings. As far as she knows, anyway. Maybe she should see if she can poke about a bit and find out for sure. 

 

“I don’t want you to be lonely,” Porthos whispers. 

 

“I won’t be,” Constance lies. 

 

“I dunno what I’d do without the others,” Porthos says. “Except that I do, because I lived a long time before I found that with the musketeers. I know loneliness. If you need me, send for me. You don’t have to send Mary, just leave a token. You know that tall wall on your way to the garrison, just passed the tavern called the cockerel? you leave something there, I’ll come visit. I’ll keep an eye.”

 

They work out a token she can leave that won’t be removed or be in danger of falling off, then he gets up and when she gets up to see him out he embraces her and apologizes into her hair before ducking away and out, gone. 

***

Later, far later, when the queen tells her d’Artagnan commended her and recommended her, Constance thinks of Porthos saying he didn’t want her to be lonely; the queen seems to be the loneliest woman in Paris. Perhaps, Constance thinks, they can change that for each other.


End file.
